Impolitic Corpses Page 22

  ‘You know, legs fused together, missing fingers …’

  He broke off. I hadn’t told him about the finger in the Lord of the Isles’s bed, but he was now staring at my stump. It was still a source of fascination after all these years. Then again, Billy had some interests that were much more perturbing than the put-upon Rowena.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said, returning his stare. ‘What can this surgeon possibly have to do with a gangster in West Pilton?’

  ‘Search me.’

  I believed he was ignorant of that aspect of Sebastian, but that wasn’t the whole story. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘What makes you think I’ve met him?’ he said, suddenly defensive.

  ‘Because you almost shat yourself when I said his name.’

  He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Eventually, he spoke again. ‘He was in Edinburgh a couple of weeks ago looking for investors. He wants to build a specialized clinic in southern Finland.’

  ‘Did he find the funds?’

  ‘What are you, a pestilent poet?’

  ‘Ha. What kind of a hold has he got over you?’

  ‘None.’ He rubbed his forehead, which was even more furrowed than usual. ‘He’s the creepiest-looking man I’ve ever seen. Must be six foot six, thin as a scaffolding pole, black hair flattened to his scalp, and teeth … I don’t know why he doesn’t get them fixed.’

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’

  ‘The canines are long and yellow and he’s missing at least one front tooth between them, top and bottom.’

  ‘Sounds like Nosferatu.’ Billy, Caro and I had seen the old Murnau film before the Enlightenment. We’d required several drinks afterwards.

  ‘Much worse than that human rodent. He’s got weirdly long fingers too, now you mention it. Good for operating, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘He’s not been back. I’d have heard. Now piss off and solve your case on your own. What am I? Your personal databank?’

  I declined to answer and stalked out. The idea that one of the undead had been in the city was unsettling. Then again, vampires generally didn’t have dealings with mid-level gangsters.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ I said, opening the taxi door.

  Davie’s head jerked back. He looked at his watch. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Eating the finest food and drinking the—’

  ‘Hanover Street,’ he said to the driver. There were restaurants that stayed open late there.

  I needed to contact Rory and Lachie, though they wouldn’t be answering their usual numbers.

  ‘Pull up over there,’ I said, pointing to the public phone under a plastic cover. There were fewer every year. I got out, put a coin in the slot and tried Lachie’s reserve number, one that I had memorized after the revolution; it was likely he’d set up a forwarding programme. There was a series of clicks and buzzes, then a woman answered.

  ‘Tadnon House, who’s speaking, please?’

  I sighed in relief. ‘Skrytot.’

  The names, anagrams of two leading revolutionaries, had been agreed soon after the Council fell, when the political situation was highly volatile. Rory’s codename was an anagram of Bakunin.

  ‘Hold, please.’

  There were more noises on the line, which I took to mean that security measures were being applied. Then Lachie spoke.

  ‘We can’t be overheard, Quint,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d tell me. Rory said it was a kill mission. Is he OK?’

  ‘Yes. He and his people got out with only minor casualties. I think Hyslop was actually trying to scare and disrupt us. For the time being …’

  ‘How about Angus? Has he met the Nor-English?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I hear there are Finns in town too.’

  ‘Also tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’ve found any trace of Lady Margaret?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ I told him about Morrie the Nut, but he’d already heard from Bothwell, who was in hospital in Falkirk, recuperating. I mentioned the teratologist.

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of him. He’s not an immediate issue – banking business, though I’m also trying to talk him into building a clinic here. No, the problem is that our friends in Dundee have taken Dougie’s death very badly. There’s a boatload of them on the way and they want blood.’

  ‘Superb. When are they due?’

  ‘They’re not saying. They may stop off and pick up the few malcontents left in Fife.’

  ‘Does Hyslop know about this?’

  ‘Of course. Duart, too. They’re panicking.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see what I can do about Lady Margaret, but she could be anywhere.’

  ‘You think? I’d say she’s in the vicinity of Embra; she might even be in the city.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I reckon the Nor-English are behind her and Angus’s kidnappings. Before you ask, I haven’t got any evidence, but when you’ve been a rebel for as long as I have, you get a nose for bad apples. The tosser Shotbolt is definitely one of those.’

  ‘But you’re negotiating with him.’

  ‘Not me – I’m just watching Angus’s back.’

  ‘All right, leave it with me.’ I cut the connection.

  The fact was that I did have evidence that the Nor-English were potentially connected to serious wrongdoing; or at least Gemma Bass was: her belt buckle with the Bosch mermaid symbol. It was high time I followed that up.

  ‘Food,’ Davie said desperately.

  We went to a pizza place on Hanover Street. He ordered two pies, both with eggs on top. Billy’s feast was heavy on my stomach even though I was only going to be a spectator.

  ‘No wine,’ I said, as he was about to order. ‘We’ve got work.’

  ‘Oh, aye? I was hoping to see Eilidh.’

  ‘Later, my friend.’ I told him what Lachie had said. The bit about the Dundonians made his eyes flash. ‘Maybe you could ring Eilidh for an update.’

  He did so, while I gulped water. I still felt twitchy after the shootout.

  ‘Right,’ Davie said, putting his phone down. ‘Hyslop’s crapping herself about our quasi-friends from the north. She’s also pissed off about a certain incident in West Pilton – let’s hope the locals had stoned all the CCTV units. As for the rest, nothing’s moving. No new leads on the dead woman, nothing significant from the poor people who’ve had the seventh degree. She’s wondering where we are, though – the queen wasp, I mean. Eilidh heard her talking about putting us on the wanted list again.’

  ‘Bollocks to that. Then again, we have been consorting with revolutionaries.’

  ‘Consorting, eh?’

  His food arrived and there followed an exhibition of gluttony that Fats Waller and Domino would have admired. Fortunately, it was over quickly.

  ‘So what are we doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Talking to the Nor-English.’

  ‘Great. Gemma Bass is something else.’

  He was right there, but I wasn’t thinking about her body. Was she something other than a trade representative? It was time to find out.

  We walked up the Mound to Goose Pie, as Ramsay Gardens were known. There were lights on in the flat we’d broken into. Davie repeated his trick with the guards and we got up the stairs without our names or images being recorded. I stood outside the familiar door and rang the bell. Heavy footsteps came down the corridor beyond.

  ‘Who’s that?’ said a man with a deep voice.

  ‘The name’s Dalrymple,’ I said. ‘Quint Dalrymple.’

  The lock was disengaged and the door opened at speed.

  ‘The writer?’ This time Nigel Shotbolt was in a blue suit with yellow lines crisscrossing it in squares and a check shirt. ‘I love your books. Come in, come in.’ He turned away. He had a strong accent, but I couldn’t locate it. Definitely northern English – maybe Yorkshire, if such a county still existed.

  I looked at Davie, who sho
ok his head. ‘You’re my secretary,’ I whispered, getting a growl in return.

  We followed the Nor-English leader down the corridor and into the sitting room. The full-length red velvet curtains were drawn. On one sofa sat the striking Gemma Bass, her hair pulled back from her strong features; she was wearing a black evening dress that rendered the imagination superfluous. I hoped Davie wasn’t drooling.

  ‘This is my number two, Gemma Bass,’ said Shotbolt, going to the drinks cabinet. ‘The famous Quint Dalrymple.’

  The woman remained seated. I approached her and took the hand she extended.

  ‘Famous for what?’ she asked, her voice almost as deep as her boss’s.

  I was certain she was dissembling, not because my books didn’t sell beyond the border – Billy had proudly announced that they did, though he complained about how hard it was to get payment – but there was a knowing look in her unusually large eyes, the irises of which were pale green. I got the feeling she knew I was an investigator and was playing dumb.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ she asked, giving Davie a sultry look. ‘Your amanuensis?’

  ‘How did you know I look after his garden?’ quipped Davie.

  Gemma Bass laughed and a shiver ran up my spine. I told my anatomy to behave itself.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Shotbolt, holding out a tray with four glasses on it. ‘We make our own firewater,’ he said. ‘I was keeping a bottle for the Lord of the Isles, but he seems to have gone AWOL.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘I hope he’s not off with the bloody Finns. We should take priority. After all, our shared heritage is British.’

  I looked at Davie to shut him up. ‘Well,’ I said, struggling to be diplomatic, ‘you could say that.’

  ‘And we’ll all be together again!’ The Englishman raised his glass. ‘To a further union, a deeper communion!’ I recognized the line. The guy wasn’t the complete buffoon he appeared to be.

  We all drank.

  ‘Good stuff,’ said Davie. ‘I didn’t know you people were Christians.’ I suspected he hadn’t recognized where the words came from.

  ‘We’re not exactly devout,’ said Shotbolt, ‘but we respect the old country’s religion. We’re business people, aren’t we, Gemma?’

  The woman, who was now standing, nodded. ‘Indeed we are, Nigel.’

  ‘What do you have to trade?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.

  ‘We’re in the process of re-establishing the shipbuilding that the Northeast was famous for, as well as getting back into steel manufacturing. We’ve got a lot of the mills in the Northwest running an’ all.’ He raised his broad shoulders. ‘What we need is investment and we’re offering generous terms. Most of all, we need dependable sources of energy. As you probably know, the oil and gas fields off our coast are no longer operational. We’ll get them going again, but in the short to medium term we need what Scotland exports.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you need whisky, given you have this flammable little number,’ said Davie, taking the bottle, offering it to everyone else and then filling his glass. I knew what he was doing – playing the fool to see if they dropped their guard. ‘Is it just the two of you, then, in this gigantic flat?’

  Gemma gave him a thoughtful look. ‘No, there’s our colleague Geoff – Geoff Lassiter.’

  Shotbolt laughed. ‘Yes, he’s standing in the corridor with a submachine gun, waiting to see if we need help.’

  Davie went for a look. He returned, shaking his head.

  The landowner lookalike’s eyes were fixed on me. ‘What is it that you want, Quint?’ He raised his right hand – I noticed that the fingers, all present, were thicker than rustic sausages. ‘I know you consult as an investigator for ScotPol. I also know that the big guy’s your sidekick, as well being in charge of this city’s detectives. So why the visit long after office hours?’

  It was time to turn the heat up to twelve.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask some questions?’ I said, with an ingratiating smile. Always soften them up before inserting the blade.

  ‘I’m not promising I’ll answer them,’ said Shotbolt.

  Davie gave him a malevolent grin. ‘Then we’ll draw our own conclusions.’

  ‘No need for that,’ the Nor-English leader said, in a hurt voice.

  Good start.

  ‘Do you know Morris Gish?’ I watched him carefully.

  ‘Who?’

  I got the impression he was playing for time. ‘Morris Gish, also known as Morrie the Nut.’

  Gemma Bass laughed, but I kept my eyes on her boss. Shotbolt wasn’t comfortable, though the only giveaway was a sudden onset of blinking.

  ‘Morrie the Nut?’ the woman said. ‘What is he? A naturalist?’

  ‘A gangster,’ I said, pausing. ‘Or rather, ex-gangster. He was killed earlier this evening.’

  The blinking slowed. Shotbolt seemed to be relieved by that news.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, taking a sip of firewater. ‘But no, I’ve never heard the name.’

  I kept up the attack. ‘How about a company called BirdMammon?’

  The rapid blinking started again. ‘BirdMammon?’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Gemma’s our financial expert. Do you know that name?’

  She shook her head slowly, her eyelids motionless. ‘No. What kind of company is it?’

  I moved on, convinced only that Gemma Bass was better at dissembling than her boss.

  ‘How about Mr Edward Sebastian?’

  ‘Sebastian?’ said Shotbolt. ‘I know him. He’s some kind of surgeon. Wanted us to finance a clinic in York.’ He wasn’t blinking rapidly, but he seemed ill at ease.

  ‘He calls himself a teratologist,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t even know what that is,’ the Nor-Englishman said, less than persuasively. He was scared.

  Gemma Bass stood up and held her glass towards Davie. ‘Congenital deformities, that sort of thing – he fixes them.’

  I began to wonder if Shotbolt was a mouthpiece and she was the real leader. Nothing seemed to provoke questionable reactions from her. I had an ace down my trousers.

  I caught her eye as she took back her charged glass. ‘Are there any Bosch cults in Nor-England?’

  ‘What?’ she said, mouth opening before she got it under control. Gotcha.

  ‘Cults inspired by the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch.’

  ‘Oh, them,’ said Nigel Shotbolt. ‘There are one or two. Harmless fools. We have freedom of religion, as long as it’s related to some aspect of Christianity. No Muslims, Sikhs or Hindus in Nor-England! My people looked into it and confirmed Bosch was a believer. I’d never heard of him.’

  I was still concentrating on Gemma Bass. For the first time, she’d been rattled. It was time to strike again.

  ‘You have a belt buckle with a design from The Garden of Earthly Delights.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Shotbolt, but I ignored him.

  The woman looked as if she was going to throw herself at me, one hand raised and the fingers bent forward like claws.

  ‘The cleaners,’ I lied. ‘Are you a fan of the painter or something more?’

  ‘None of your business, arsehole.’

  Davie and I looked over our shoulders. The tall young man who had spoken was standing in the doorway, a submachine gun raised in each hand.

  ‘Geoff,’ said Gemma Bass. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

  No love lost there, I thought.

  ‘These gentlemen are leaving,’ said Nigel Shotbolt. ‘Now.’

  I smiled at him. ‘A message from the Lord of the Isles. He’ll see you when he gets back what he’s missing.’

  The Nor-English leader and his business chief exchanged glances.

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about, Dalrymple,’ he said. ‘If you’re really in touch with Angus, tell him we’ll be here tomorrow, but then we’re going home. He knows what will happen then.’

  The 50,000-strong army would inv
ade, which would provoke our leaders into using the mysterious secret weapon. Armygeddon? The Dundonians were on their way towards Edinburgh too. This was even worse than when the Council was in charge.

  TWELVE

  ‘That was fun,’ said Davie, as we went downstairs. ‘I could have taken him, you know.’

  ‘Really? I’ll grant you there was no sign of a weapon under La Bass’s dress, but how do you know Shotbolt wasn’t armed too?’

  He harrumphed. Back on the street, I considered our options. Adrenaline still gripped me, so I thought about charging into Hel Hyslop’s office. In all likelihood, she’d be there or at Duart’s official residence. I talked myself down, which made Davie peer at me.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Thinking aloud.’

  ‘Aye, well, I think you’ve done enough of that tonight. Let’s get some sleep.’

  ‘What, here?’

  He grinned. ‘Tempting, but I’d prefer my mother’s.’

  ‘You have a living mother?’ I was amazed. Although auxiliaries under the Enlightenment were not allowed to maintain family ties, many did in secret – and those, like Davie, who didn’t, made contact again after the revolution. Which he must have done. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘She’s … difficult. Besides, she disapproves of me.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why.’ That got me an elbow in the ribs.

  Davie grabbed my arm. ‘Come on. The good thing is she told me never to reveal the family connection to anyone.’ He stopped. ‘Shit. Oh, well, that’ll be your lookout. At least no one will know where we are tonight.’

  A cab came down the steep street and we both raised an arm.

  ‘Holy Corner,’ Davie said to the driver.

  I looked at the city as we headed southwest. The streets were in better condition than they used to be and the buildings, many of which had been left to crumble under the Council, were gradually being done up, especially those within walking distance of the centre. House prices and rents were rising due to the parliament and the financial area, and many locals had been forced to move to the outer suburbs, which were still in poor condition. Things were improving, but not fast enough for plenty of people. I wondered if that was the same across Scotland. If so, the newly reunified nation might quickly fall to pieces, especially if the Nor-English decided to take on the Scottish Defence Force. Maybe Shotbolt had a secret weapon too.